


Stare Decisis

by MajorAccent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles nods and hands his glass off to the shirtless guy behind the counter. “The public doesn’t, though,” he stresses. “The media would eat you alive.”</p>
<p>“You’re the media,” Derek announces stiffly, suddenly wary and cautious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stare Decisis

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a result of my love of PoliSci? I don't know.
> 
> Stiles is a journalist for the Washington Post. Derek's the Chief of Staff for Laura, who's SecDef.

“Won’t you get demoted if they find you here?” Derek asks when he slides on to the stool next to him. He’s talking about the clientele the club caters to, nodding his head towards the go-go boys grinding in cages lining the multi-colored dance floor.  
  
The club’s heavy music is deafening, so Stiles leans in to make sure he’s heard over it. “I would be, if my boss didn’t like me blowing him so much,” he yells, just to get a reaction, hiding his grin behind his lowball glass as he drinks down the last mouthful of his Dirty Blonde and Derek’s nose scrunches.  
  
“You have three Pulitzers,” Derek mutters, still scowling.  
  
“Besides,” Stiles continues loftily, ignoring the comment. “I’m not the one with a sibling in the president’s cabinet.” He shrugs and catches the eye of the bartender, pointing down to his empty tumbler before he looks back to Derek. “You have more to lose by being here.”  
  
Derek’s brow quirks. “Really?” He asks, like he doesn’t know better. “My family already knows.”  
  
Stiles nods and hands his glass off to the shirtless guy behind the counter. “ _The public_ doesn’t, though,” he stresses. “The media would eat you alive.”  
  
“ _You’re_ the media,” Derek announces stiffly, suddenly wary and cautious.  
  
Stiles grins. “Lucky you,” he hums and the music changes over to some over-produced British pop. He takes his refill with a smile, handing over his money. “Now, did you need something?” He asks after a sip.  
  
Derek frowns, eyebrows scrunching down into a dubious line. “Why do you assume I need something?”  
  
“Please,” Stiles scoffs. “All work and no play.” He nods to Derek’s chest. “You still have your blazer on and keep touching your phone.”  
  
Derek glances down to himself and looks back to Stiles, whose forearms are on display with the cuffs of his deep purple dress shirt rolled up past his elbows. He sighs, noticing the subtle black checkerboard pattern that overlays it, because Stiles never has flat colored shirts.  
  
Stiles’ eyes go hard, calculating. “My guess is this is you telling me not to come to the office tomorrow,” he accuses. “So… What is it? Laura needs to meet with the Ambassador Delattre, because she’s just as charming in French as she is in English? Natural disaster? Hostage situation? Flu outbreak?”  
  
“I can’t tell you here,” Derek sighs and Stiles rolls his eyes. “The flight leaves in an hour.”  
  
Stiles nods. “You better start packing, then,” he dismisses and reaches into his pocket for his phone. He takes a quick picture of Derek, who’s looking at the lens with visible alarm, with a mess of toned chests and neon bright mesh shirts behind him. “I’m blackmailing you with this when you get back,” he says and turns back to lean his elbows against the bar as he nurses his drink.  
  
“I’m here so you can come with us,” Derek grits out, standing to his full height. “Cover it.”  
  
“You’re offering me a headline,” Stiles blinks. He stands too quickly and downs the rest of his drink as the seat makes a violent jerk back before it topples back on to its four legs. “Let’s go,” he coughs wetly after slamming the glass down, and pulls his suit jacket off the back of the chair, ready to follow Derek out.  
  
Derek holds the door open to him, guiding him to the Buick filled with secret service, ignoring the questioning look Stiles shoots him when he catches sight of the protection detail.  
  
“How’s your Russian?” He asks once they’re seated on the upholstered leather.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “Passable,” he answers. “Why? Are we going to Russia?”  
  
“Wow,” Derek quips. “Can’t get anything past you.”  
  
“Asshole,” Stiles snorts, stretching out to kick against Derek’s shin. “Estonia and Kazakhstan are Russian speaking countries, too.”  
  
Derek sighs. “Just tell the driver where you live,” he directs.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://www.foldedpinup.tumblr.com) is my tumblr if you feel like yelling at me.


End file.
